


A Little Gore

by ZadieWrites



Category: DCU, The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Moderate Violence, i wrote this instead of doing homework, slightly shippy, weatherpiper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 06:29:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17075141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZadieWrites/pseuds/ZadieWrites
Summary: Mark's been shot, and won't tell Hartley how it happened. Hartley is concerned enough to help him.





	A Little Gore

**Author's Note:**

> I finally posted my first fic . . . sorry if you wanted something actually shippy but I apparently can't just do domestic fluff like everyone else so here you go.

The door slammed, and Hartley felt it through the thick, leather soles of his boots. He was the only Rogue in the kitchen, as it was late at night. Mark was standing in the doorway, panting. Hartley stood up out of his chair, prepared to ask Mark where the hell he’d been for the last four hours when he noticed a dark red stain on Mark’s T-shirt. When he took a closer look, he realized there was blood running down Mark’s arm and chest. 

Hartley glanced at his colleague. “Whose blood is that?” he whispered, vague concern, lacing his voice. 

“Mine.” grunted the Wizard, and Hartley realized Mark was clutching his right shoulder. 

He staggered over to the sink, bracing his hands on the counter. 

“From what?” questioned Hartley. 

“None of your business, Rathaway!” Mark snapped, his anger most likely coming from a combination of stubbornness and pain. 

“You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Hartley observed.

‘’You don’t fuckin say!” 

“Stop shouting, you’re going to wake the crew.”

Mark panted, crouching down, trying to mask the pain that was evidently threatening his body. 

“Let me take care of that.” Hartley said, insistently. 

“What? No.” 

“I won’t ask any more questions.” 

Mark paused for a second, one hand wrapped around his gut and the other gripping his shoulder. Hartley waited, patiently for his response. 

“Fine.” muttered Mark, reluctantly agreeing, upon realizing his situation

As blood dripped onto the floor, gradually creating tiny, scarlet puddles which would become thick stains on the cement of the safehouse, Hartley began approaching him. Mark took a deep breath before standing up with a groan. Hartley put a hand on Mark’s back to stabilize him. 

It put the two at an odd position because Hartley was 5’8” and Mark was 6’4”. Hartley grabbed Mark’s unharmed shoulder and started helping him to the bathroom.   
“The sink’s not gonna do it, Mardon.” Hartley informed him, quietly. 

Mark rolled his eyes at Hartley’s dry, often undetectable sense of humor. Hartley led Mark inside the bathroom and shut the door behind them. 

“Sit down on the edge of the tub.” Hartley instructed as he turned on the water of the bathroom sink. 

Mark did as he was told and sat down. Hartley washed his hands and turned to Mark. 

“I’m gonna have to ask you to take off your jacket.” 

Mark pulled off his black leather jacket and Hartley could see the extent of the injury. He also immediately recognized it as a bullet wound, but he wouldn’t be able to tell what kind of gun’s barrel had issued it. A hole was in his broad shoulder and blood was running down his arm. 

“. . . and your shirt.” Hartley continued. 

Mark winced as he pulled off his t-shirt, revealing his large biceps and toned abs that rippled down his stomach when he lifted up his arms to take off the shirt and throw it across the room. Hartley resisted the urge to pause and stare at Mark’s muscles.

He grabbed a washcloth, some rubbing alcohol, gauze and medical tape. The Rogues were often injured; therefore they were never short of medical materials. 

Hartley grabbed the rubbing alcohol first and poured it onto the wound, making a light, splashing sound. Mark grabbed Harley’s arm and gripped hard. Mark cried out, breathing heavily through his teeth. He muttered curse words, struggling to contain himself, as red blood flowed.

“I’m sorry . . . it has to hurt.” Hartley sighed. 

“It already hurt! I don’t see why it’s gotta hurt more!” protested Mark. 

“Don’t be a baby, Mardon.” 

“I’m not being a baby, Rathaway, I just got shot for fuck’s sake!” shouted Mark. 

“I told you to quiet down! Is the bullet still in there?” questioned Hartley. 

“Maybe.” the other grunted. 

“Mark . . . “ Hartley prompted in a warning tone. 

“Yes, the bullet’s still in there!” 

“Dammit . . . now I gotta pull it out.” 

“. . . with what?!”

Hartley began looking around for something he could use to jerk the bullet out. The tweezers didn’t seem big enough and the scissors would butcher everything in its path. He washed his hands again, figuring that what he was about to do was not safe and not sanitary and far from pleasant but he felt like Mark was bleeding out and he didn’t have much of a choice. 

Hartley felt around the wound first, warm blood came into contact with his fingers and Hartley groaned at the sensation, but it was about to get a lot worse . . . 

“Hartley you better not be about to do what I think you’re about to do.” Mark warned. 

“I’m sorry, Mark.” Hartley sighed as he pushed two fingers into the wound. 

Mark screamed. An actual scream erupting from his lungs. Hartley usually heard groans or curse words, but he screamed. Hartley felt the bullet between his fingers. Small, silver and hard. The first time he tried to pull it out, he failed, and only succeeded in sending blood flying all around the bathroom, splattering on the tiles. 

The second time he made sure to get a better grip on the piece of metal in his hand and he gathered his strength, preparing himself both physically and mentally, as he pulled, hard. 

Mark didn’t make a sound, as if the pain was just too much to voice, and his hand immediately went to his shoulder, blood running through the cracks between his fingers and Hartley clutched the bullet in one hand. 

“That sucked.” Hartley informed him, simply as he dropped the bullet in the porcelain sink. 

“Sucked more for me, you absolute mad man!” Mark exclaimed in disbelief. 

“If I hadn’t done that, you would have died of lead poisoning.” 

“And I’m gonna die of blood loss if you don’t fix what you did soon!” 

Mark was right, blood was now flowing freely, without the bullet acting as an obstacle for it. Mark was panting through the pain . . . cursing under his breath. 

Hartley grabbed a towel and held it against the wound, trying to stop the blood while he rediscovered the gauze he’d pulled out. He pressed the towel against Mark’s shoulder and ordered him to hold it against him. Mark obeyed, fortunately and Hartley snatched the soft, white gauze from the bathroom counter. 

“Remove the towel.” Hartley told him. 

Mark was once more compliant and Hartley replaced the towel with the gauze and bit off a strip of blinding white medical tape. He pressed it on the side of the gauze. (Mark winced when he felt the pressure). Hartley finished taping up every side so it was a neat, little white patch strapped to Mark’s skin. Hartley was no doctor but his crew had suffered enough injuries for him to have some amount of experience with medicine. And he was quite proud of the job he had done. 

“Thanks . . .” Mark grunted, leaning against the wall. 

“Of course, what was I supposed to do? Let you bleed to death?”

“I still think I could have taken care of it myself.” 

“Yeah, you’re resourceful enough that you could have. But you don’t have to. We’re a team.” 

“You’re fuckin’ cheesy . . .” Mark chuckled. 

“Maybe.” replied Hartley as he was cleaning up the medical supplies. 

There was a quiet cast over the bathroom interrupted by the occasional muted thud of Hartley shutting a cupboard.

Hartley realized the other was still shirtless, and Mark’s t-shirt was ruined from the bullethole and the blood. He cursed his eyes for continually drifting downwards to the Wizard’s abs, but he couldn’t resist. Mark had the body of a Roman gladiator. Or at least what Hartley imagined Roman gladiators looked like. Strong, tall . . . and muscled everywhere.

As awful as it was, the blood running down his chest and arm kind of completed the warrior look. 

“What are you looking at?” Mark questioned, cutting into Hartley’s thoughts. 

“Nothing. Uh-you should get cleaned up.” he pointed out. 

Mark looked down at the blood on his torso. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” 

Hartley picked up a second towel and carefully ran it under hot water. He rung it out in his small hands and turned off the water. Mark watched him closely with his green eyes. Hartley turned around and approached him.

Even with him standing up and Mark still sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, Hartley was still not that much taller than him. Moving slowly and carefully, Hartley brushed the cloth against Mark’s shoulder. Rusty-colored, dried blood became red again when it came into contact with the water and began dripping down his body, leaving streaks of clean, tan skin in its wake. Mark’s eyebrows raised slightly in surprise but he didn’t pull away and he didn’t try to take over. Good. Hartley was going to do this for him. 

Hartley rubbed down his arm, circling the patch with his hand. Every time he ran down his arm again he felt the curve of his bicep, leading to his firm forearm. 

“Are you gonna tell me who shot you?” Hartley murmured as he gently cleaned up the other man. 

“No.” Mark answered, quietly but firmly. 

“Why not-” 

“You said you wouldn’t ask anymore questions.” 

“I only said that to get you to let me help you.” 

“Fucking hell, Piper . . .” Mark sighed and shook his head. He was clearly not giving any answers today.


End file.
